


After the Storms of Trafalgar

by salytierra (octavaluna)



Series: Empires of the Sun [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Historical Hetalia, Human & Country Names Used, Iberian Brothers, Injury, M/M, Pale Polyamory, Post battle of Trafalgar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7126063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octavaluna/pseuds/salytierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antonio is gonna be fine, he has to be fine. And once he wakes up he’s gonna be pissed as hell and they are going to stand side by side and drive the damn Napoleonic army out of <i>their</i> peninsula!</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Storms of Trafalgar

**Author's Note:**

> It's said that after the storm that capitulated the Battle of Trafalgar, Portuguese villagers that found British and Spanish soldiers washing out on the shores and still alive, took them in indistinctly and helped them.  
>  ~~my research suspiciously says nothing about the french tho~~
> 
> Nicolau is my fanpicked name for Portugal.  
> 

**_October 22, 1805_ **

 

Empires come and go. The high of a nation’s power is the moment when they believe themselves eternal, unbreakable. Portugal remembered quite well how it felt, the moment you became aware of the fact that nothing lasts forever. He had been careful not to repeat Rome’s fate and even diminished continued holding a good portion of his power, enough to still be seen as an empire, to be respected and admired.

For Spain that realization came during his divorce. He ran into his brother’s arms then, despite how tense their relationship was at the moment, he showed up at Portugal’s doorway shaking and completely broken, spent the night crying in his arms. The most powerful man in the whole world brought down to his knees by a simple “goodbye”.

Losing Austria, fighting against him, cracked something in Antonio’s resolve. Portugal had to bear witness, from the sidelines, of the Spanish Empire slowly starting to crumble. Probably what hurt the most was seeing his little brother standing behind France, ordered by his new kings to do anything to play nice, to be a “good friend”. It was during times like those that Nicolau felt sick to his guts, drinking and fucking the rage away under the cover of the night, the echoes of an ancient promise still resonating in his mind. He couldn’t remember _her_ face anymore, but he remembered her words and the fact that he was failing, rather spectacularly. He couldn’t protect Antonio, couldn't shield his baby brother from harm, from heartbreak, from pain. Two centuries ago he was worried about Austria. He should have been more wary of France and that toxic friendship all along. But Nicolau did nothing.

For centuries he betrayed Antonio and walked away from him and loved him in silence, not a word ever leaving his lips.

And his brother gave as good as he took. Always a pain in the side, always so sickeningly obsessed and suffocating that he didn’t leave Portugal any other option but to look in the other direction all the time. 

 

And yet, it still hurt to see his spark fading away.

 

So all he could do to make it better was to show up from time to time somewhere along the border and wait until Spain noticed his presence and came to him, letting himself be held for a few precious moments. He always looked tired now, always too busy, pale and bruised, neglecting his health and working day and night to keep his wards, his lands, his empire somewhat afloat.

Spain, that worked too hard and took it out on others, but that had to swallow his pride too often these days for his own good.

Spain, that looked nothing like the baby boy pawing at butterflies in the middle of a clearing but that clung to the soles of his brother’s clothes just the same way.

 

And now he’s lying on his bed, pale and feverish, still smelling of death and seawater as his whole navy washes out on their southern shores. This battle, this loss against England left him worse than Nicolau has ever seen him, and he’s afraid of walking out the door and returning just to find out that his little brother has followed Rome’s path and just disappeared into nothing. It’s not England’s fault, Portugal knows. War is war and that was a fair battle, so Nico’s heart is not divided between his brother and the love of his life at all this time. This time he solely blames France as he brings Antonio’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles one by one, holding back tears of righteous fury and fear.

Antonio is gonna be fine, he _has_ to be fine. And once he wakes up he’s gonna be pissed as hell and they are going to stand side by side and drive the damn Napoleonic army out of _their_ peninsula. Even if they have to do it with their own bare hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider commenting and/or leaving kudos. They are wonderful ao3 features that feed the writer's starving soul  
> [I've got a tumblr](http://salytierra.tumblr.com)♥


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